


take your hand, my dear, and place them both in mine

by dgalerab



Series: a fix-it, but more [6]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Minor Character Death, Phone Sex, Sex Toys, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, Specifically How Fucking Weird It Is, Way Too Many Bad Jokes During Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-08 04:03:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21229499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dgalerab/pseuds/dgalerab
Summary: Eddie's mother dies. He attends the funeral in Derry, alone.Missing Richie ends in some strange conversations on the phone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this fic except that I wanted to write it a lot.
> 
> It's very weird so I tried to tag appropriately, but let me know if I missed anything.

Eddie has worked 90 hours and counting this week, so he’s been a little slow on the uptake for the past day or two.

He notices that it’s very quiet, and that Stan wasn’t supposed to be home tonight - he’d been planning a big date with Patty for a while now - and that he is nonetheless, and both he and Richie open their mouths to say something the moment Eddie is in the door.

“Shower,” he slurs at them, because even though he’d scrubbed out after work, the more tired he gets, the more intense the need to boil off any dirt and pathogens still clinging to his skin gets. Plus the L-train is so goddamn gross this time of night that even though he stands (no matter how dead he is on his feet) and barely touches anything, he just… needs a shower before anything else.

He showers hot - it’s not good for his skin but Richie likes helping him moisturize, anyway - and nearly falls asleep in the tub before Stan quietly knocks on the door. “Hey, don’t take forever in there. We uh… We need to talk.”

Eddie groans. He’d gladly stay in here boiling himself for another hour, but it’s not like it’s actually going to make any difference in cleanliness. Richie has pestered him with this thought more than a few times. He turns off the water and dries off as quickly as he can when he’s swaying on his feet - he thinks tonight might be one of those nights where he sleepwalks and yells at Richie for being a terrible nurse and Richie laughs at him for the rest of the month.

“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” he mutters, getting as far as putting on boxers and a t-shirt before he stumbles out.

There’s food on the table. Split pea soup, which is Eddie’s favorite. The pressure cooker is still on the stove, which means Richie made it today, recently. Stan’s chewing his thumbnail nervously, and Richie is vibrating with nervous energy.

“What’s wrong?” Eddie asks, brain finally catching up.

“Your mom died,” Richie blurts.

Something fizzes in his brain, several light bulbs lighting up all at once but in the wrong order, unable to make a connection. Something about the millions of mom jokes that have come out of Richie’s mouth (except no, those are all harmless and dumb and Richie would never joke about this ever ever ever) and the fact that Eddie hasn’t talked to his mom for more than half a decade (and that’s not Richie’s fault, it’s  _ not, _ but…) and she’d never really lived an active life and that increases the chances of heart attack by…

He looks at Stan. He hates that he does, because Richie would never joke about this and he knows that, but when Richie says “your mom” the next word isn’t supposed to be “died” and it just doesn’t make sense.

“My mom called,” Stan explains. “We would have tried to reach you at work but we figured you might not want to find out in public.”

“Oh,” Eddie says. And then, because it makes about as much sense as anything else he might say when his mother (who he hates and loves and mostly hates but also loves - loved - and who raised him all by herself - badly - but she tried - but still,  _ badly _ and--) has just died, he adds, “Soup.”

And then he sits down and eats.

Richie rubs his back, and Eddie should probably be doing something. (Crying, asking how she died, thanking them for caring?) But he’s been working 90 hours and counting this week, and he’s hungry, and Richie made his favorite food, so he might as well.

**

“You don’t… want… me to come…?” Richie sounds out.

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “I’m… A funeral is enough, I don’t want to be worrying about you the whole time.”

Richie takes a very slow breath, then lets it out. “What do you mean, worry about me?”

Eddie rubs his hands over his face, because it’s hard, apparently, to voice feelings in a non-hurtful way when your stifling, meddling, overprotective harpy of a mother has just died. Like the hurt just creeps into shit that isn’t supposed to be hurtful. Eddie is relieved that Richie seems to be trying very hard not to take any of the weird, choppy shit that Eddie keeps saying the wrong way, but Eddie would like to be able to just breathe and say things  _ right _ again.

“I mean,” Eddie says, “that when I think of you being in Derry, I tend to think of… of…”

“Hate crimes?” Richie offers. He puts up his arm and lets it dangle awkwardly from his elbow. “That time I got chewed up by a clown like a beaver gnawing down a tree?”

“Yes,” Eddie says, relieved that Richie seems to be picking up what Eddie actually meant. “I think about you getting hurt or killed and… and I can’t lose you. I can lose my mom,” which is sort of true, even though losing his mom hurts way more than he wants it to hurt, “but I can’t lose you. And I just… I don’t want you anywhere near Derry, okay?”

“Well, I don’t want you to go alone,” Richie says. “Maybe you could ask Bill? Or…?”

“No,” Eddie says firmly. “Look, Derry’s been clown-free since ‘93, I’ll be fine alone. I just don’t want to be scared, okay? Not when I have to… to go and be my mom’s son in public, you know? And anymore, my worst fear is you having to go back there.”

Richie’s mouth twists in a bitter smile, because maybe Derry is clown-free, but it still has all the scars. It still has all the hate and the big, red target Pennywise put on Richie’s back. “Clown-free since ‘92. You going senile?”

“‘93 rhymes, dumbfuck,” Eddie says, and kisses Richie’s forehead. “Look, I’m going to be stuck in some suffocating church mourning my suffocating mother with a bunch of suffocating cousins and when I’m sitting there trying to remember how to breathe, I want to be able to think about how you’re here, safe and happy and healthy and surrounded by all our friends. Because if I can’t think about that, I will lose my goddamn mind and either puke up my own lungs or go on a killing spree.”

“Okay,” Richie says. He wavers before deciding to joke again. “Will I be naked in this fantasy of yours?”

“No, Richie, I will not be imagining you naked at my mother’s funeral,” Eddie says tiredly.

“Shame,” Richie murmurs. “It’s what she would have wanted. To have the thought of my beautiful body in her presence one last time.”

“No,” Eddie says, running his thumbs along Richie’s cheekbones as he holds his face in his hands.

“Sorry,” Richie says, maybe because technically Eddie thinking of Richie naked on a regular basis is one of the many reasons why Eddie hasn’t spoken to his mother in a  _ while.  _ (And never will again, his brain volunteers.)

“Don’t be,” Eddie murmurs. “I can’t tell you how much I need you to be as  _ you  _ as possible right now.”

Richie smiles at that, that slow, startled smile he gets that spreads through his whole body with an indescribable glow of  _ life.  _ “Really?” he asks, goofy and blushing because even years after being together he’s still blown away that Eddie loves  _ him. _

“Yes,  _ really, _ stupid, I fucking  _ love you,” _ Eddie groans, then all but tackles him with a violent kiss.

**

Eddie honestly can’t remember the funeral. 

A cousin asks him, “Oh, not married yet?” at the start of the service and he spends the rest of the night trying not to say something like, “Well, we’d get married, but it wouldn’t have been fair to rob Mom of his sexual prowess,” because he misses Richie a lot right now. Or maybe, “We’d get married but it’s illegal because the world’s broken and thinks that my mother trapping me in an endless cycle of phobias and fake drugs is love but a beautiful boy who’d lay down his life just to be held tenderly by me isn’t,” because he misses Richie a  _ lot _ right now.

Instead he says nothing, and gets a lot of, “Oh, you’ll find someone,” and, “If you ever need anyone in these trying times…”

He  _ speaks _ at the funeral, and nearly 10 minutes after he sits back down he can’t remember what he said. Something about single mothers, and complicated relationships, and a lot of other platitudes that hadn’t meant anything because Eddie was staring at the floor wondering if Richie would make kissing noises at the open coffin while no one was looking if Eddie had let him come, or if this was one of those things he’d take seriously because he knows when Eddie needs that.

Eddie doesn’t know if he needs it. But he did miss Richie. A  _ lot. _

**

It’s an ordeal to try to detach himself from the family and drive home alone, in Stan’s shitty car. 

Stan’s going to move in with Patty any day now, and Eddie and Richie should really get their own car, but this one has sentimental value now. It’s broken down in so many special places.

He stares at Derry and the grey slush on the ground, and wonders if it’s really any different now that Pennywise is gone.

He nearly hits Al Marsh.

He hits the brakes, then sits there watching the man stumble off, clearly drunk, wishing he’d been paying less attention and tumbling into hysterical laughter until someone honks at him to get a move on.

But, well, it’s not a surprise. Derry’s always been like this, hasn’t it? Never letting the past die gracefully. Maybe Pennywise didn’t make the town, the town made Pennywise. They’ll never really know, Eddie figures. Hopes.

And then he drives to Bev’s old apartment, because Bev’s fuckind dad had been stumbling to the nearest bar and he won’t be back for a while and today has been so goddamn weird that it seems like rational thought might break the whole fabric of reality today, so why not do the dumbest possible shit he can?

He marches right up the stairs, finds the apartment - he hadn’t realized he remembered which apartment was, but it turns out that once you clean buckets of blood out of someone’s bathroom, you tend to remember where they lived - and picks the lock.

His mother hasn’t been buried for longer than an hour and she’s already rolling in her grave.

He searches the entire apartment. It’s a disgusting apartment. It was already a disgusting apartment, and it’s just gotten worse since. It’s gross and he doesn’t want to touch anything, but he searches the entire apartment anyway, because if he doesn’t he’s going to hunt down Al Marsh and beat the shit out of him as some kind of delayed reaction to the entire general fucked-upped-ness of their childhoods, and he really doesn’t want to get arrested in Derry, Maine.

He finally finds a crooked floorboard and pries away the siding above it.

Roaches explode out of the hole and though his skin crawls with a pathological certainty that they  _ must _ be on him, he still reaches into the dark space.

He touches something cool and nearly screams, because God, it  _ must _ be a roach and they  _ must _ be on him, all over him, oh God, but it’s just a ziplock bag.

He pulls it out, flips it over to take a look at the slightly blood-stained postcard, and breathes out a sigh of relief.

It’s still here.

It hits him, abruptly, how incredibly stupid he’s being.

He’s breaking an entering the home of a violent, abusive alcoholic. 

“Jesus,” he whispers, and tries to contain his panic as he runs out the door and back to his car.

He’d forgotten to turn it off. Had just left it idling in the road.

He’s fucking losing it.

_ But at least Richie was safe. Safe at home in their apartment with Stanley and hopefully curled up in their bed with their blankets, waiting for Eddie to call. _

And damn it, maybe it’s the joke or maybe not, but Eddie  _ is _ thinking of him naked under the covers and he wants. He wants and wants and  _ wants,  _ and sex is really only the tip of the iceberg of  _ what _ he wants but he can't think past it because there's just  _ so much _ iceberg and Eddie is the Titanic of repression.

“Fuck,” Eddie says, and drives back to his mother’s house.

He pushes the door into his bedroom, takes a long look. She’d taken down anything he’d put up after about the age of ten, and had replaced it with baby pictures and old stuffed animals. He quietly closes the door again and heads to her bedroom with her bathroom.

He showers for a good two hours, even though it’s probably useless and the hot water runs out after a while and he hates the color of the tile in this stupid bathroom, then gets dressed and sits down on his mother’s bed to call Richie.

The phone only rings once before Richie picks up. “Hello?” he asks, like he’s been waiting nervously over the phone since Eddie called in the morning.

“Hey you,” Eddie croaks.

“Oh, thank God,” Richie says. “How long was this fucking funeral?

“Um,” Eddie mutters, laying back on the bed. “I kind of broke into Bev’s old apartment on the way home?”

“What?!” Richie blurts. “Eddie, what the fuck?! You know that guy, what if he’d--?”

“Rich, you’re absolutely right,” Eddie says very calmly, staring at the sickly floral wallpaper of his mother’s bedroom, “but I need you to not talk like that right now.”

Richie is quiet for a moment, picking up on his meaning with an eerie accuracy that Eddie can hear over the phone. “Can I ask why you’d do such a totally normal and not at all unreasonable and reckless thing?”

“I got the postcard back,” Eddie says. “I guess I was just really tired of this stupid town taking things from us. And also I nearly hit her dad and braked before I realized who it was, so I kind of felt bad.”

“Ah,” Richie says, laughing like he doesn’t know what else to do. “Gnarly.”

Eddie smiles at that. “If everything was different about the world and Derry,” he says, “it would have helped a lot to have you here, is all.” He sighs. “That didn’t sound right.”

“No, no, I know what you mean,” Richie says. “But hey, I’ve been helping by staying in bed and reading a really good book all day, like you asked. And I ordered pizza from the more expensive place that’s really good.”

“Thanks,” Eddie breathes. “That does help.”

“Maybe later I’ll take a nice bubble bath too,” Richie says. “For your benefit alone, of course.”

Eddie snorts, staring at the ceiling in silence for a long time. He misses Richie. A lot.  _ Really _ a lot. “Is it normal to be laying in my dead mother’s bed and be, like,  _ super _ horny?” he asks.

“Well, I’ve shown your mom a lot of good times there,” Richie says, “maybe you can still feel it in the air.”

Eddie smiles, closing his eyes, because that’s so Richie and he loves Richie so much, but he still has to choke out, “Not today, please?” His eyes are watering and his chest hurts.

“Sorry,” Richie mumbles.

“No, no, don’t do that either,” Eddie says, “Don’t get all quiet and… try to be less you. I want you to be you.”

“Oh,” Richie says. He’s quiet for a long moment, then, “What do you need? I want to help.”

“God, I don’t know,” Eddie says. “I just want you. But just… God.”

“Real clear directions there, Eds,” Richie teases.

“God, you’re just so good,” Eddie chokes out, tears fighting their way out of his eyes with a vicious burn.

Richie lets out a small breath, like he’s surprised. He’s always surprised, and it makes Eddie  _ furious. _

“I don’t get,” Eddie says, out of nowhere, because he hadn’t even known this thought was in his head until it’s tumbling out of his mouth, “how you’re the one always thinking you’re dirty or wrong when I grew up fucking drenched in my mom’s fucking  _ poison _ . I feel fucking  _ poisoned,  _ Richie, just angry and hateful and I fucking left my mom all alone to die of a heart attack like a decade before her life expectancy would have run out and it’s her goddamn fault but I’m still the one that did it. That’s still who I am, just a mess of paranoia and anger and toxic sludge who walked out on his shitty-ass mom.”

“Eddie, no,” Richie says, excruciatingly gentle. “No, you’re not that. You’re good too. You’re kind and brave and you save people for a living and you love me into a puddle every goshdarned day. It’s not your fault your mom made it impossible for you to live with her.”

“Yeah, but…” Eddie says, choking down sobs.

“You were never going to be there for her,” Richie murmurs. “You’d have just spent your whole life hiding inside her fantasy of you.”

Sometimes, Richie is really fucking deep, and it shouldn’t surprise Eddie, but it does. “She was still my  _ mom,” _ Eddie chokes out. “And I  _ loved _ her, sort of, and now she’s  _ dead.” _

“That’s not your fault,” Richie says. “You don’t know if she’d lived any longer if you’d stuck around, but I know you’d have lived a lot less.”

“God, stop sounding like some kind of distinguished philosopher, it’s killing me that I can’t touch you when I want to fuck you through the bed,” Eddie manages, between sobs.

Richie bursts into laughter. “Nevermind. There’s something seriously wrong with you, Eddie Spaghetti.”

“Why the fuck am I so goddamn horny?!” Eddie yells. “This room is so fucking ugly!” Then, even though it’s  _ somehow  _ an afterthought, he adds, “And I buried my mom  _ today.” _

Richie laughs harder. God, Eddie loves his laugh.

This is why he left his mom. Because she’d called  _ this _ disgusting and sick. Richie’s laugh, his comfort, his  _ love. _ It makes it so much easier to say goodbye to her. Because he  _ had _ loved her - and she’d done her best to love him back, probably, but she hadn’t. She had loved an idea of him.

If she’d loved him, she’d have been happy to have someone else love him too, especially the way Richie did.

“Are you naked?” he asks, because hell.  _ Hell. _ He can’t kiss and hold Richie and squeeze him tight like he deserves and instead Eddie’s just… just fucking  _ horny. _

“I told you you’d be thinking about it,” Richie teases. “No, man, I’m not lounging around naked on the day of your mother’s funeral. I’ve just been hanging out here, waiting for you to call.”

“I want you to be naked,” Eddie mutters, and sobs choke him again for reasons he can’t explain.

“Are you  _ seriously  _ this horny right now?”

“Yes. I want to listen to you,” Eddie says, hiccuping slightly.

“You want me to jerk off while you openly weep in your dead mother’s bed?” Richie asks, trying not to laugh.

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Get one of the vibrators so I can hear you properly.”

“A quick question, no stress: Have you just fucking lost it, my man? Are there bodies? If there are dead bodies to hide, let me know, I’ll send Bill and Mike, they’d definitely know what to do.”

“Shut up,” Eddie says. “No. I’m just… God, I just  _ want you.” _

“If you stop crying, I’ll get out the good vibrator,” Richie says.

“Are you bribing me with sex?”

“No, I just can’t get it up while you’re fucking crying, man. And don’t accuse me of foul play when  _ you’re  _ the one demanding phone sex during your mourning period.”

“You cry during sex all the time!”

“That’s an overwhelmed crying, you’re actually fucking  _ crying,” _ Richie says. “Your  _ mom _ died.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want to be laying here missing my mommy, I want to be there fucking you,” Eddie snaps.

“Okay, I love you, you know that I do, but  _ please _ don’t ask me for sex while genuinely saying mommy as a grown man,” Richie says. “It’s gross.”

“Mommy,” Eddie says, out of spite.

“No. Ew. No.”

“Mommy mommy mommy,” Eddie says, and now it sounds so much grosser than before, but he has stopped crying. He’s sort of laughing, if he can call it that, or maybe the boiling pool of emotions in his chest is just bubbling any which way it can.

“Jesus Christ, how am I attracted to you?” Richie mutters. Eddie hears him moving, a slight rustling on the phone.

“I miss her and I don’t want to miss her,” Eddie pleads. “I just want… I want the things she never wanted me to have. Let me hear you.” 

“Alright, alright,” Richie says. “I’ve already got the lube, don’t get your panties in a twist.”

Eddie takes a deep breath, then says, “Fuck, I just remembered my mom died in this bed.”

Richie is silent for a long moment. “Listen, I’ve already got my fingers inside, so I’m going to need you to pretend you didn’t just say that and move somewhere else,” he says finally, very strangled. “Because I can overlook a lot of how weird this is, but that’s… no. Just  _ no.” _

Eddie’s limbs feel heavy, but he gets up. Now he can’t stop thinking about it. “Um,” he says.

“What about your old bedroom?” Richie suggests.

“No way dude, it’s like a mausoleum in there,” Eddie replies. “I don’t think my mom ever forgave me for getting older than 10 and it fucking  _ shows.” _

“Living room?” Richie asks.

They both realize that’s not going to work. It was always where they’d find her when they were sneaking out, trying to avoid her questions and demands for a kiss. “No,” Eddie says.

“Bathroom?”

“Gross. No. I’m not doing any sex stuff in a bathroom,” Eddie says. “Bathrooms are disgusting.”

“You jerk off in the shower!”

“There’s… there’s water!” Eddie says. “It’s fucking clean if… fuck, nevermind, just… no.”

“Okay,” Richie says, a small laugh in the back of his throat. “Well…”

“Hang on,” Eddie says, and opens up his mother’s closet. It’s fairly big and has several boxes to sit on, so he shoves aside her clothes and sits. “Okay.”

“Where’d you end up?” Richie asks.

Eddie groans. “Fuck off.” 

“Well now you  _ have  _ to tell me.” 

“You’ll laugh.”

“I’m already laughing,” Richie points out.

“I’m in the closet,” Eddie says. “I am sitting in my dead, homophobic mother’s closet.”

Richie lets out an ungraceful guffaw. “Fuck!” he manages. “Eddie, no! Eddie, why would you tell me that? I’m going to have to come out on stage now, I can’t  _ not _ tell that joke!”

Eddie grins despite himself. “You can come out on stage whenever you want,” he says. “I won’t hear it.”

“Ouch,” Richie says. He’s a little breathy. Eddie wonders if he’s already opening himself up. “Kinda hurtful from the only guy with the balls to tell me I’m funny to my face.”

“Can’t help it,” Eddie says. “I’ll be watching the emergency broadcast.”

“The what…?” Richie asks, stopping short a moment too late as he realizes Eddie’s setting up a bit.

“Y’know. About the pigs flying,” Eddie says.

“Oh, fuck you,” Richie manages, but he’s laughing. “I’m gonna do it! Eventually! I’ve got balls too.”

“I know,” Eddie says softly. “I’m only teasing.”

“Mm. I know. It was funnier than most of the things I’ve ever said, which is just rude. How would you feel if I barged into surgery and started doing it better than you?” Richie says. 

“Probably horrified,” Eddie says with a snort.

“This is so uncomfortable,” Richie whines. “How do people finger themselves?”

Eddie laughs. “I don’t know.” He bites his lip. “How’re you doing it?”

“I’ve got one knee in my fucking face,” Richie says. “It’s not sexy at all.”

“Sounds sexy from here,” Eddie says.

“I figure most things would sound pretty sexy in comparison to your surroundings,” Richie says, gasping a little. “Though who knows, maybe your dead mom’s slippers really do it for you. I won’t judge.”

Eddie grins, resting his head back against the wall. For a moment he wants to cry again, but he shoves it back. “Is it in?” he breathes.

“Yeah,” Richie says. “Where d’ya want it?”

“Just… second setting,” Eddie says. “I want you to be able to talk.”

“Mmkay,” Richie mumbles. There’s a bit of rustling, and then he gasps. “What do you want me to say? I don’t mean to hammer in the dead mom thing, but I genuinely don’t know why the fuck this scenario is doing it for you, so if you make me babble that’s all I’m gonna be able to think of…” 

“Just talk,” Eddie begs. “Just… how’s the new set coming along?”

“I realize you probably don’t need me to spell out how weird this shit is,” Richie says slowly, voice breaking a little, “but you want me to sit here doing a comedy show with a vibrator in my ass while you sit in your dead mother’s closet on the day of her funeral?”

“Um,” Eddie says. “If you don’t want to, that’s… that’s fine.”

“I mean I’m a little worried about your sanity,” Richie says, “but you know I’ll do anything you ask of me, Eds.”

“Don’t call me Eds,” Eddie says halfheartedly, because he feels comforted by the nickname at the moment. “My mom’s closet smells like mothballs.”

“That’s nice,” Richie says, taking a deep breath. “Is that turning you on? Should I start knitting a sexy sweater out of mothballs?”

“Fuck off,” Eddie grouses. “But yeah, a little.”

“Are you fucking for real?” Richie asks. “Genuinely: Are you okay?”

“I know it’s fucked up, but it’s… it’s sexy,” Eddie mutters. “It feels like I’m breaking rules. Like I’m risking being caught, and risking it for  _ you, _ and that…” He swallows hard. “I mean, not that I would have enjoyed getting caught fucking you if we’d been doing this while I was still living here, that would have sucked for so many reasons. But I like… I like pretending I’d be brave enough.”

“I don’t exactly think it’s cowardice to avoid something you know is going to be shitty,” Richie mumbles. “But I guess I kind of see what you mean. You wanting me so bad you’d risk your mom seeing would be pretty damn hot.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Exactly.”

“How fucking terrifying would it be if your mom did catch you right now, though?” Richie jokes.

Eddie’s heart speeds up despite himself. “Don’t say shit like that,” he says. “It’s not funny.”  _ Not in Derry. _ It’s not supposed to happen anymore, but it’s not like his zombie mother would be any weirder than the shit he’s seen before.

“Sorry, man, sorry, but there’s a vibrator in my ass and I don’t know what to say,” Richie breathes. “I’m fucking sorry your mom died and I’m sorry you can’t be sad about it like a normal human person.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Trust me, I know how absurd this is.” He rubs a hand over his face. “Tell me about your day. Have you been taking good care of yourself?”

“Oh yeah, brushed my teeth twice a day since you drove out…” Richie says, trying to sound sultry. He’s not taking himself seriously, though, which just makes it another bit. “And ate a salad, too!”

Eddie smiles, more relieved than he really wants to admit. “Turn up the vibrator a little?”

“‘Kay,” Richie breathes, silent for a moment before his breath hitches. “There. Happy?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, stretching his legs out. “Did you sleep alright?”

“Not as well as I would have with you,” Richie murmurs. “But yeah. More or less. And Stan and I went to the movies, saw The Mummy. Brendan Fraser, man… he’s hot.”

“Was it a good movie?”

“The best. Gotta watch it again when you get back with all the others. Even Stan thought it was fun.”

Eddie grins. “Okay. We’ll watch it.”

“Gotta do a joke in my next set,” Richie says, “about my girlfriend being turned on by funerals. ‘S comedy gold.”

“I’m not turned on by funerals,” Eddie says.

“Sssh, ‘s okay,” Richie says. “It’s sexy. The crying? The emotion? Instant boner.”

“God, shut the fuck up,” Eddie laughs. “It wasn’t sexy, it was miserable. And not because my mom was dead but because I kept getting all this shit about how I’ll find someone and I couldn’t tell everyone that I’ve found the someone-est someone I possibly could.”

“Fuck, Eds, you’re really scrambling my brain here spilling these complicated feelings while I’m getting wrecked,” Richie says.

Eddie snorts. “Do a comedy set,” he says.

“What, like, the whole thing?” Richie asks. “It’s like an hour long.”

“Would you?” Eddie asks. He doesn’t actually want to push Richie too far, but he’s hiding in his dead mother’s closet and at this point, nothing seems too weird to him.

“God, Jesus,” Richie groans. “Okay. The things I do for you, Eddie my love…”

“You don’t have to,” Eddie reminds him.

“No no,” Richie says. “I’m flattered you wanna hear my jokes. The vibrator is a bit of a twist, and so is the dead mom, but hey…” 

“I like your jokes,” Eddie says. “If I wasn’t working, I’d come and heckle you every night.”

“I don’t do a show every night,” Richie points out.

“I’d come and heckle anyway.”

"Like, heckle my bartending skills?"

"Yeah, dude, you call that a screwdriver? Where's the flavor?"

Richie laughs. “Alright, alright. Well, here's your chance. Heckle away, it's a real turn on. Introducing comedian Richie Tozier!”

“Boo,” Eddie says, trying not to giggle. “Get a real job.”

“I pay your fucking rent,” Richie says. “So anyway, my girlfriend’s a surgeon. I’m real proud of her, but sometimes when she works too much in a week, she’ll start doing surgery in her sleep, which is real cute, but I don’t know where she gets those scalpels.”

Eddie laughs. “You can say boyfriend if it’s just the two of us.”

Richie stops short. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Eddie says softly. He gets it. He spent the whole day getting sympathy from his family over his bachelor life when he’d have long gotten married if he could. “You don’t have to, just wanted to point it out.”

“No, I… I want to,” Richie says. “There’s a vibrator in my ass and I’m thinking about you fucking me stupid while I’m telling jokes about you, kinda weird not to, really.”

“Whatever you want. Just want to hear your voice,” Eddie says.

“Hear my voice while I’m hard as a rock,” Richie corrects.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, smiling to himself.

“Fuckin’ psychopath,” Richie teases. “God, I’m so fucking sweaty. Anyway. My boyfriend thinks I’m a real shitty sleep nurse, let me tell ya…”

Eddie grins, and lets him babble. He knows Richie’s better than this on stage, and he’s enjoying the discrepancy, the way Richie rushes through some of the jokes breathlessly, the way he has to stop to catch his breath. After a while he starts forgetting the punchlines, too, and Eddie’s stomach burns hot. “Do you want to get off?” he asks.

“Nah,” Richie says, breathing hard into the receiver. “I um. I feel like this is kinda… Therapeutic for you, and that’s nice. Hasn’t really felt like there’s an end goal here.”

Eddie smiles like a schoolboy with a silly crush and falls over into the boxes with a soft coo. “That’s so soft,” he says. “God, you’re so soft.” He giggles in a way that’s altogether embarrassing. 

“Man if I knew all it took to make you all cute and flustered is to edge myself while doing comedy, I’d have been doing it since day one.”

“Oh, yeah?” Eddie challenges. “You’d have been shoving a vibrator up your ass in the first year when you couldn’t even get a kiss on the cheek without folding like a house of cards?”

“Joke’s on you,” Richie retorts. His voice is rough, like his throat is dry as hell. “I still can’t handle a kiss on the cheek without folding like a house of cards. I just got more dignified about it.”

Eddie grins. “Dignified? You? Never.”

“I’m plenty dignified, you’re just mean.”

Eddie snorts. “It’s cute that you’re just… letting me… y’know.”He pauses. “Does it feel good?”

“Yeah,” Richie says. “It’s kinda… I mean, it’s a lot. My legs are shaking really bad, and uh…”

Eddie swallows. “Keep going.”

“Well, my dick is  _ aching, _ ” Richie says. “But in a good way.” 

“You and your good dick pain,” Eddie laughs. “I’ve never had my dick hurt and liked it.”

“You’re lucky your weakass dick is so damn good at fucking or it’d never survive in the wild,” Richie says.

_ “What _ are you talking about?”

“You cannot  _ possibly _ expect me to - fuck! - be coherent right now,” Richie asks. “God I shifted and now it’s even more in there… Fuck me sideways into next Tuesday…”

“Oh, the second I get home I will,” Eddie says. “Tell me more about how it feels.”

“‘S good. Intense in a really slow way. And it feels like… like you’re in charge, you know.”

Eddie flexes his toes, pleased. “You like it when I’m in charge.”

“Hell yeah,” Richie says. “Absolve me of my Catholic guilt, baby.”

Eddie laughs harder than he strictly means to.

“I’m only kidding a little,” Richie says, swallowing hard. A small moan stays caught in the back of his throat, teasing Eddie with the promise of more. “But I like it when you feel strong.”

Eddie’s heart twists a little. It’s so unlike his mother and he needs that so much right now, but it’s so hard not to hate himself for that. For sitting in his closet, desperate to be free of a woman who’s already in the ground.

“Want me to forbid you from touching myself until I say so?” Eddie teases, trying to get a hold of himself.

“I’m not touching myself,” Richie says. “I’d explode.”

“Yeah, but just for the principle,” Eddie says.

Richie goes quiet. “Yeah,” he says softly.

Eddie has to bite his lip not to laugh, because being dominant in bed is already cheesy enough in the heat of the moment when he has Richie melting under his hands like putty, but without even being able to see Richie or even really being hard, it’s really fucking stupid. “Don’t even think about touching yourself, baby,” he says, as seriously as he can.  _ “I  _ decide when you come.”

Richie moans, and Eddie can’t help but giggle.

“Fuck off,” Richie wheezes. “It’s good.”

“I know,” Eddie says. “But it sounds so fucking funny.”

Richie chuckles, breathless. “Jesus. Don’t make me laugh, I’m so close.”

“You wanna touch yourself, baby?”

“Mmmno,” Richie says. “Can you talk dirty to me some more, though?”

He asks so earnestly that some of the guilt knotted up in Eddie’s chest loosens up. “Well, I have been making you do comedy while on the edge for like… an hour,” Eddie says. “So I might as well.”

Richie barks out a laugh, then groans. “Yeah, c’mon, pay your dues.”

Eddie stares at a hideous tracksuit hanging in front of him. The guilt might be fading, but on the other side of the emotional fog he’s been sitting in all morning, the reality of the situation is setting in. “Hang on, I gotta come out of the closet, smelling my mom has gone from dirty-wrong to just plain wrong.”

Richie giggles, a little frantic. “Oh, oooh, that’s… stop being  _ funny,  _ I’m  _ dying. _ ‘N it was wrong from the st-start.”

“Haha, fuck off,” Eddie says sarcastically, and goes back to his childhood room, turning aroudn a few of the baby pictures before sitting in the windowsill where Richie used to climb in the window. “Okay. Uh… where do you want me to go with this?”

“Nu-uh,” Richie says, breathy and desperate. “You made me get all hot and bothered no matter how weird this is, you can’t be making me  _ think _ n-now.”

Eddie snorts. “Okay, sure. Um…” He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Unless… are you okay?” Richie asks, panting like he’s trying really hard to keep his voice even and concerned.

“Yeah, I’m fine, actually,” Eddie murmurs, surprised to find he means it. “You made me laugh, what more do I need, huh?”

Richie snorts.

“I actually mean that, you know,” Eddie says, because despite how crazy it is, Richie probably doesn’t know it. Not as well as he should. “I love your jokes. I love that you make me laugh. I feel like I could make it through anything if I had you and your shit humor to make me laugh through it all.”

“Well, fuck, Eddie,” Richie says, small and hesitant. “That’s… um… Thanks? I feel like that about all of you.”

Eddie snorts. He rubs a hand over his face. “Okay. Talking dirty. Talking… fuck, man, this is so much harder when I can’t see you.”

“Eddie, my brain is a melted bowl of ice cream, it d-doesn’t have to be good,” Richie says.

Eddie rolls his eyes. “It’s easier when I can see you. You look like a wet dream when you’re like this, all red lips and long lashes and the way your throat looks when your head falls back… damn, it’s so good.”

“Yeah?” Richie prompts, even though Eddie knows he’s probably embarrassed. But he’s trying to help Eddie get into it.

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “You always love it so much, I wanna hold you down and help you ride out every second of it. I know how hard it is for you to enjoy yourself.”

“Mmmyeah,” Richie says.

“You’re not touching yourself, are you?” Eddie asks.

“No,” Richie breathes.

“Good. I want you to take it. Just feel it, no matter how intense. That’s what feels good right now, right?”

“Yeah,” Richie manages, choking back a sob.

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “So don’t touch. Just talk to me, baby, and let it happen.”

“Okay,” Richie murmurs. “Fuck.”

“Good boy,” Eddie murmurs. He knows what Richie means, about this being therapeutic. It’s peaceful. Then again, he’s not the one with a vibrator inside him. “You feel good, sweetheart?”

He only ever uses pet names like that when Richie’s fucked halfway out of his mind or when Richie’s curled up in his lap, half asleep from the way Eddie plays with his hair, and he’s not sure why.

“Yeah,” Richie whimpers. “‘S good.”

“Okay,” Eddie says, watching the leaves on the tree beside his window sway. How many times had Richie clambered in on this tree? So many nights reading comic books and whispering about superheroes so his mother wouldn’t notice. Eddie wonders, for a moment, if he’d have survived childhood without Richie and the other Losers. “Turn up the vibrator a little, then put those pretty hands of yours on your belly. Make it easier on yourself not to get yourself off.”

Richie’s breathing is harsh but he says, “Alright.” More rustling, then a long moan.

“Comfy?”

“Not the word I’d u-use,” Richie manages, wheezing through a laugh. “But it’s g-good. God!”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Just a lot of - ha! - feeling. N-Nothing I need to d-do - oh! - or anything,” Richie breathes. “Just have to listen to you and - mmm! - f-feel.”

Eddie smiles. “I’m imagining you laying there. All flushed and worked up and still peaceful. It’s a good thought. You’re good.”

Richie hums in desperation.

“You’re so good,” Eddie says, and it chokes him up a little how true it is. “You’re so good to me. And for me. And you make life so much easier and more alive. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“God,” Richie mewls. “God, Eddie!”

Eddie grins. “I love how much you like being praised. Egomaniac.”

Richie lets out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a whine. 

“I’m kidding,” Eddie murmurs. “You deserve every word. You know I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it with all my heart.”

“Oh,  _ fuck,” _ Richie says. “God, God, it’s so… Eddie, I’m so…!” He moans, loud and desperate.

“Touch your chest,” Eddie says. “Up towards your neck. Can you do that?”

“Mmmhmm,” Richie whines.

“Good boy,” Eddie says, closing his eyes to imagine it. It’s sort of muscle memory, an automatic how-to-drive-Richie-nuts routine in the back of his mind, but it’s easy enough to recall. “Up the front of your neck, spread your fingers, as slow as you can.”

Richie keens, gasping for breath. He’s on speakerphone, so Eddie can’t hear every sound perfectly, but he hears enough to know Richie’s cracking under the pleasure.

“Still with me, baby?” Eddie asks.

“Yeah,” Richie sobs, and Eddie knows that tone of voice. It takes the awkwardness out of not being able to see Richie and lets the calm of knowing Richie  _ needs  _ something Eddie can give wash over Eddie.

“Good. Take those hands over your shoulders, behind your head. Use your thumbs to get behind your ears. You know how it feels good, right?”

“Yes,” Richie breathes. “Yeah, I can… Hnnn…”

“Arch your back a little,” Eddie murmurs.

“Oh!” Richie yelps. This angle is always good for him. “Oh, fuck, oh fuck, Eddie, I think I’m gonna…”

“Yeah?” Eddie says. “Want to touch yourself?”

“No!” Richie cries, like it’s punched out of his chest. “I’m gonna…!”

He lets out a strangled noise that drags on for far too long before cutting off into a series of small mewls.

Eddie sits up straight. “Rich?”

Richie whimpers, and there’s some rustling and fumbling before he manages a small,  _ “Shit.” _

“Did you just…?” Eddie croaks.

“Yeah,” Richie manages, gasping for air. “Yeah.”

“Are you serious?” Eddie says, his heart pounding in his chest. “And I didn’t see it?!”

“God I feel like I’ve… fucking… been put through the wringer,” Richie chokes out. “Fuck. Oh, fuck, it still feels… Fuck.”

“No fucking way!” Eddie shouts. “Fuck! I cannot believe… that’s fucking hot as hell and you did it while I’m away for my  _ mother’s funeral. _ What the fuck?!”

Richie lets out a small sob. “I’m sorry, I…”

Eddie lowers his voice. “Hey, hey, no, I’m just griping,” he says. “You know me, I’m not… you did good, Richie, you did great.”

“I know,” Richie whines, but he’s still sobbing. “I don’t know why I’m…”

“Hey,” Eddie says. Richie always crashes after sex - it was stupid to try to push him so hard without Eddie there to catch him after. “Listen to me, okay? I’m gonna walk you through this. Can you stay with me?”

“Yeah,” Richie says, sniffling. “Sorry, sorry, I’m… I’m okay, I just… my brain feels a little sideways and…”

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” Eddie murmurs. “Is the vibrator still in you?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, take it out nice and easy, alright?” he says. 

He waits patiently for Richie’s small, “Okay.”

“Good. Get the wipes to clean yourself off.”

“It was dry,” Richie mumbles. “It was… God it was really weird.”

“Wipe between your legs,” Eddie says. “Get the lube off if you can.”

“We can do it again when you get back,” Richie says. “Right?”

“Of course,” Eddie says. “If you want to, you know I wouldn’t miss it.”

Richie snorts at that, then sniffles.

“Go on, get dressed,” Eddie says. “Put on my hoodie, alright? Stay warm.”

“Okay,” Richie says. After a moment, he mumbles, “Now what?”

“Go get Stan. Put me on the phone with him.”

Richie sniffles loudly, taking a slow breath to calm himself.

Eddie taps his fingers against the windowsill until he hears Richie’s voice, quiet, murmur, “Eddie wants to talk to you.”

“Hi Eddie,” Stan says cautiously. “What’d you do to Richie this time?”

“I may have broken him a little bit,” Eddie says. “My bad. Can you just put an arm around him for me?”

Stan sighs like he’s very put upon, but after a moment he replies, “Done. He’s well taken care of.”

“I am,” Richie says. “He’s even patting my head.”

“You’re welcome,” Stan teases.

“Thanks,” Eddie says earnestly. “I miss you guys.”

“When are you coming home?” Richie asks.

“I have to put the rest of the furniture up for auction,” Eddie says. “And then burn the rest of the stuff, I guess, and before I hand everything off to the realtor. Maybe two, three days.” He takes in his old room, shuddering. “Don’t know how I’m going to sleep until then.”

“Is it that bad?” Stan asks.

“Yeah, it’s  _ so _ bad,” Eddie says, sitting in the windowsill and squinting at the photos. “It’s creepy as shit. She literally took down my Thundercats posters to put up more baby pictures.”

“Thundercats are very gay,” Richie says solemnly.

Eddie rolls his eyes. “There’s like… group photos of us, and she’s scratched your face out.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Richie whispers. “That’s horrifying.”

“Oh, don’t worry though, she did the same to Bev,” Eddie says.

“That’s worse. I don’t know how, but that’s so much worse,” Richie whispers.

“It’s like Psycho, but the other way around,” Stan adds.

“Do you think if I’d been killed by Pennywise my mom would have just like… relished the joy of being beside herself with grief over the loss of her boy who never grew up?” Eddie whispers.

“I think you should book a hotel room, like, yesterday,” Richie says. “That’s what I think.”

“Yep,” Eddie says. “Stan, take good care of Richie, I’m going to go do that.”

“Just for you, I’ll be extra nice to Richie,” Stan says. “And not at all because he’s my best friend and I love him.”

Richie lets out a pleased little squeak.

“Thanks. I love you both. But especially Richie,” Eddie says. “And if you don’t hear from me in an hour I’ve been taken hostage by my zombie mother and you guys need to stick together and come rescue me as a  _ group.” _

“Thanks, now we feel really good about you being there,” Richie says. “Just go. Call from the hotel.”

“Okay, love you, bye,” Eddie says, then hangs up.

And sure, he does bolt out the door like he’s being chased, but that’s just Derry.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright maybe like one whole person asked for um. a slightly less weird instance of coming untouched
> 
> so here we are
> 
> (extra warnings: more dom/sub elements than before, including safewords + suggested subspace/subdrop. also, a panic attack, but not like... from the sex? eddie is just a nervous boy who really worries about richie)

The key, Eddie thinks, is keeping Richie distracted.

This is easier said than done. Richie’s brain works like a tub of ping pong balls thrown from a balcony. It’s very hard to keep it off of the tiny little fact that he’s got a vibrator in his ass.

They’ve tried everything. Watching TV, playing video games, making Richie read to him, playing cards. They’ve even borrowed a puzzle from Stan, who gave them very, very suspicious looks about it for two weeks after that.

But it always ends up back here.

“I  _ can’t,” _ Richie sobs. “I can’t,  _ please, _ Eddie!”

“You’ve done it before,” Eddie says, stroking Richie’s hair out of his eyes.

Richie shakes his head, shaking like a leaf. “It k-keeps--” He cuts off into a despondent whine, arching and twitching, and then continues, “keeps feeling like it… and then it… it doesn’t.”

He’s crying, and Eddie can’t refuse him. He figures Richie probably needs to be dragged through the gauntlet if they want to do this, but he doesn’t know how to do it without hurting him. As much as Eddie likes being bossy, when Richie’s sweaty and pleading underneath him, it feels so terribly wrong to deny him.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Okay, I’ve got you.”

He wraps his fingers around Richie’s cock and strokes him, slow and gentle, and Richie lets out a high pitched, wild sob and comes, flailing at the headboard and Eddie’s arms like he doesn’t know what to cling to as he falls apart.

Eddie turns off the vibrator and lays next to Richie as Richie starts sobbing. 

“I’m sorry,” Richie sobs.

“Hey, no,” Eddie says, stroking the top of his head and kissing his forehead. “It’s okay.”

“I didn’t do it,” Richie says, in a small voice. “You wanted to see so bad and I don’t know why I can’t, I just…”

“Richie, stop,” Eddie murmurs, leaning over him. “It’s not a problem. I’m not disappointed in you, I promise.”

“Promise?” Richie asks, a whimper burbling in his throat.

“Promise,” Eddie says, drawing Richie closer and pressing their foreheads together.

Richie takes a deep breath. “I… Yeah, okay,” he says, shaking his head. “Fuck, sorry, my brain’s all…”

“I know,” Eddie says, smiling. “You can’t handle sex, it’s fine.”

“Fuck off,” Richie says, sniffling as he shakes off the remainder of the broken downward spiral. “Lay on top of me?”

Eddie grabs a tissue to clean Richie up quickly, then obliges, pulling the covers over them. “Better?”

“Yeah,” Richie says, worming his arms around Eddie. “Fuck! I really am pissed I can’t do it again, though.”

Eddie hums, kissing the side of his neck.

“I guess we’ll just have to wait for my mom to die,” Richie jokes.

Eddie rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t the funeral, jackass, you just weren’t expecting it and you didn’t have time to overthink it.”

“You’re too nice,” Richie whines. “If you pushed me a little harder…”

“What, I’m just supposed to ignore you when you’re fucking begging for me to end your suffering?” Eddie snaps. He tucks his head into Richie’s shoulder. “I can’t do that. I’m scared I’ll hurt you for real.”

Richie nods. “Alright, alright. I don’t wanna scare you.”

Eddie nuzzles against his jaw. “I’m running out of ways to keep you occupied while I’m edging you.”

“I guess we’ll just have to go to the arcade,” Richie says.

“Oh, yeah, like you wouldn’t literally combust wearing a vibrator in your ass in public,” Eddie retorts.

“I would crumble into dust and never recover, yes,” Richie says, “but maybe I’d cum myself to death beforehand.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie sighs, but he’s glad that Richie giggles happily underneath him.

**

“There’s a Leslie Nielsen marathon on TV this weekend,” Richie says.

Eddie hums.

“I have three new clients this week,” Stan mutters. “I can’t.”

Richie clears his throat. “Sorry Stan, this would be an antisemitic event,” he says.

“Maybe stop calling your sexual endeavors antisemitic,” Patty offers. 

“I’m banning all the Jewish inhabitants of this apartment,” Richie says. “I don’t know what else to call it.”

“No,” Patty says, shaking her head with a stifled grin.

“We need to call out racism when we see it, Patty Blum,” Richie drawls, stealing a green bean off her plate and munching it down as obnoxiously as he can.

She keeps shaking her head, but she’s laughing.

Stan looks up from his paper. “Okay, I don’t want to know, but I need to know,” he says. “Please,  _ please _ tell me you don’t have a Leslie Nielsen fetish.”

“I do,” Richie says very seriously. “I really do. That scene where he wraps his whole body in a condom? Super into it.”

“That would track with Eddie’s personality, I suppose,” Stan mutters.

“We’re trying to make Richie come untouched, which means I need to distract him with something,” Eddie volunteers.

“Is this what you used my puzzle for?” Stan asks, sighing.

“Yeah,” Richie says. “But come on, Stanley the Manley, it’s not like we rubbed our dicks on it or something. It was the most innocent way to use a puzzle during sex.”

Stan gives him the driest look Eddie’s ever seen. “Oh, good.”

“Oh, come on, like you’ve never jerked it to a puzzle,” Richie replies.

“I have not,” Stan says, looking back at his paper. “Does this mean you want our living room for the weekend?”

“Yes please,” Richie says, grinning sweetly at him.

Stan sighs. “I can work at the office if you call when you’re done.”

“Pattycakes?” Richie asks.

“Well, Bev and Ben were going to go hiking one of these weekends, and Bev likes when I come along and pretend to be very eager to get a move on so that Ben is forced to give her a piggyback ride for half the hike,” Patty says. She turns to Richie and explains, “He usually tries to wait for her.”

“How dare he,” Richie says.

“Take pictures of the birds for me,” Stan says.

“You know I will,” Patty says.

“You fuckin’ weirdos,” Richie says. “So anyway, I talked to Bev and it turns out you don’t actually have to listen to me during sex.”

“Oh,  _ God,” _ Stan says, folding up his paper and chugging the remainder of his coffee. “Goodbye, I’m going to work.”

He kisses Patty goodbye and storms out of the apartment.

Eddie and Richie stare at Patty, who remains unphased, returning their looks with mulish indifference.

“Alright, I’m immediately alarmed,” Eddie says finally. 

“C’mon, this is from Beverly Hanscom,” Richie says. “Wife to the Safe Sex Seargant General.”

“Oh my God,” Patty says, resting her chin on her hands. “Is this baby’s first lesson in safewords?”

“Shut up, Patricia,” Richie says. “We can’t all be bisexual professional… sex… connoseuirs.”

Patty isn’t so much a sex connoseuir as someone who had once tended bar in a sex club for a year, but she was all too good at lording this minor experience over Richie, which was funny enough that it had made it into pretty much all of Richie’s shows.

“Alright, alright, I’ll give you some space,” she says, ruffling Richie’s hair and putting her plate in the sink.

“The bird wench is correct,” Richie says. “I am talking about safewords.”

Eddie drums his fingers on the table. “Okay, wait, I think I’ve heard of them,” he says slowly. “For like… crazy kinky sex.”

“I mean you had phone sex with me on the day of your mother’s funeral, we can’t exactly descend any further into debauchery.”

Patty snorts as she leaves the apartment, and Eddie rolls his eyes. 

“I’m not worried about debauchery,” Eddie says. “How’s this work?”

“When I start begging you to let me come, you ignore me unless I say the safeword,” Richie says.

Eddie grimaces at him. “Why not just… not beg?”

“Because by the time we get that far, my brain is a mass of strawberry pudding and it just starts spilling out of my mouth,” Richie says. “Direct monkey-brain-to-mouth pipeline.”

Eddie tries to push that unpleasant metaphor out of his head and focus on the matter at hand. “What if you forget about the safeword?”

“I won’t,” Richie says. “Or maybe I’ll say something weird like ‘safeword me’ or whatever, but I’m not going to forget that it exists.”

Eddie grimaces at him. “Are you sure?”

“Yeeeees,” Richie says. “C’mon, please? It felt really, really good to come untouched and it’ll be so much easier if when I start thinking I can’t you just gently tell me I’m wrong and to stick with it, champ.”

“Not calling you champ,” Eddie says.

“Maybe champ can be our safeword,” Richie says, grinning.

Eddie groans. “I’m going to have to ask Bev to stop giving you sex ideas.”

“So you’ll do it?” Richie asks eagerly.

Eddie pinches his nose. “Yeah, I’ll fucking do it.”

**

They make it all the way through Airplane without actively dealing with the fact that Richie has a vibrator buzzing away inside him.

He’s sitting in Eddie’s lap, head dipped back against Eddie’s shoulder, Eddie’s arm around his middle. Eddie can feel a faint, constant tremor running through his body, but every time Richie tenses, Eddie rakes his fingers through Richie’s hair and kisses his neck and makes Richie recite some of the movie along with the characters, and Richie more or less relaxes.

The movie ends, and Richie whimpers, reminded of the vibrator inside him.

“Sssh,” Eddie murmurs. “Shush, baby.” He pulls Richie’s head back, makes him arch his back, and Richie moans, legs kicking wildly.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m so fucking close,” Richie whines.

“Whenever you want to come,” Eddie murmurs, “feel free.”

Richie rolls his hips, gasping and tensing. “Shit. Shit, Eddie, it’s right there and I…” His eyes slide to look at Eddie, pleading with him silently.

“What’s your safeword?” Eddie asks.

“Is this a trick question?” Richie teases, breath hitching as he squirms against Eddie. “Champ.”

“Do you need to use it?”

Richie shakes his head. “No, no, I just… Fuck, I’m so close.”

Eddie lets out a slow breath against Richie’s shoulder. He can be strict. If it’s safe, he can be strict. He’s not hurting Richie.

“Richie,” he says, tugging absently at Richie’s hair. It’s getting long, and Eddie loves it. “Relax. You can do this.”

Richie groans, hiccuping slightly as he tenses again.

“Ssssh,” Eddie whispers, spreading his fingers over Richie’s belly. “I said relax.”

“Fuck, Eds, I can’t…” Richie says, curling in on himself.

Eddie tugs his head back, kicks apart his legs. “Relax,” he says sharply.

“But I…”

“No,” Eddie insists. “No buts. Either you safeword or you listen to me and unclench.”

Richie sobs, but he doesn’t safeword.

“Rich. Look at me,” Eddie murmurs.

Richie twists his head around. “Yeah?”

“You can do this,” Eddie says softly. “Breathe.” 

Richie whimpers, but he takes a shaky breath.

Eddie kneads at his belly. “That’s it. Let go.” He tugs gently at Richie’s hair before stroking through the long curls indulgently. “Just let go. I’ve got you.”

Richie’s eyes are glassy, but he lets out a slow breath, going lax.

Eddie switches up the vibrator, and Richie goes taut again, mouth falling open. Eddie keeps him immobile with his own legs and his hand in Richie’s hair. “Sh-sh-sh,” he whispers, dropping his voice a little lower. “Let go. Just let go.”

Richie looks at him slack jawed, then murmurs, “Eddie, I…” like he’d only just remembered he can argue.

“No,” Eddie murmurs, gentle as possible. “No, just relax.”

The words on his lips vanish. Slowly but surely, Richie does, whimpering softly as he does.

“Good boy,” Eddie coos. “Good.”

Richie lets out a needy little noise, and Eddie relaxes a little too, stroking his hand up and down Richie’s chest. He pushes Richie back into looking at the TV, kissing up his neck.

Richie gasps and his muscles coil, but this time Eddie barely has to press his palm into Richie’s sternum as a reminder before he’s calming himself with little pants and letting go again, heels sliding along the floor as his legs go limp.

Eddie combs his fingers through Richie’s sweaty hair, shushing him every time Richie so much as twitches - which is more and more as The Naked Gun starts playing. But he’s not clenching, just twitching, gasping, mewling like small shocks are jumping through his body every so often.

“That’s it, baby, you’ve got this,” Eddie murmurs, slowly stroking himself off as he watches Richie. “Just relax and let me take care of you. You’ll get there when you get there.”

Richie’s eyes flutter closed, then open again, and then his mouth falls open with a small little noise of surprise. Eddie rubs his belly, trying to keep him from locking up again, and finally,  _ finally _ he sees Richie tip over the edge.

His hand speeds up over his own cock, but with the way Richie fucking looks, it doesn’t take long before he’s spilling all over himself, forcing his eyes to stay open so he doesn’t miss a single second.

Richie mewls, then lets out a loud, broken noise as his head falls back. He’s beautiful like this, red, wet lips falling open as his face goes slack except for the softest furrow of his brows. He whines, thrusting into the air as his cock twitches, and then moans, long and deep.

Eddie wipes his hand on the towel they’d put down and reaches for the remote to give Richie some reprieve, but Richie grabs his hand to stop him, pitching forward and crying out. 

Eddie watches him, breathless, rubbing his back as he comes again on the heels of his last orgasm, hands clenching and unclenching as he shakes his way through it.

He keeps making those high, broken little noises as he falls back, head lolling, still arching and sobbing in desperation.

He lets out a sharp cry, and then his eyes are rolling back in his head and he goes entirely limp.

Eddie shuts off the vibrator in a hurry, quickly pulling Richie’s face towards him.

Richie doesn’t respond for a moment, but then he’s sluggishly blinking at Eddie. “Whasssss…?” he slurs, trying to focus his eyes on Eddie.

“Shit,” Eddie breathes. “Shit, are you okay?”

“Great,” Richie mumbles. He sounds high. “Mmmmmgreat.”

“You passed out,” Eddie says. He pats Richie’s face feverishly. “Hey. Hey, Richie, you with me?”

Richie squints at him, head wobbling on his neck like he doesn’t know how to keep it up. “Mmm? With…? Yeah.”

“Richie,” Eddie says, trying to curtail the panic that rises in him. “Richie, you okay?”

“Yeah,” Richie says, blearily blinking at Eddie. He seems to be slowly taking it in for real. “Yes.”

Eddie lets out a sigh of relief. “God, you really went all wonky on me there.”

Richie giggles. “Wonky,” he says, then slumps against Eddie. “Jesus, m’real out of it, Spaghetti.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “You  _ look  _ real out of it.”

He plays with the little hairs at the back of Richie’s neck as Richie melts against him. He’s still quivering like jello, swallowing hard. His throat must be dry.

“I’m gonna get you a glass of water,” Eddie says, kissing Richie’s head.

Richie nods, but he still doesn’t look entirely with it when Eddie stands.

Eddie makes it a few steps away before Richie suddenly shouts, “Eds!” in abject terror. 

Eddie darts back to his side without thinking. “What?”

“I… I don’t know,” Richie says. “You were leaving and I…” He looks confused, disoriented.

“Oh, Jesus, did I seriously give you a stroke?” Eddie blurts, heart rate spiking through the roof. “Fuck, fuck, are you feeling any numbness or a headache or difficulty seeing…?”

“Eddie,” Richie says, a little out of it but still joking, which is good. Joking is good. Eddie grabs onto his arm with both hands and squeezes for dear life, heart bursting out through his ears and lungs. “I’m functionally blind, ‘member?”

“You know what I…!”

“I’m not having a stroke,” Richie says, laughing and crying at the same time. “I just feel really cold and I need you here. Please?”

Eddie can’t quite get his breathing under control, but he presses his forehead to Richie’s shoulder. “Fuck. Oh, fuck. You… Oh, God.”

“Eddie,” Richie chokes out through barely contained little giggles and sniffles. “Eddie, you didn’t give me a stroke, come on.”

“You were so out of it!” Eddie says. “You’re… Jesus, let me check your pupil reaction, I’m…”

Richie snorts loudly, shaking Eddie away as Eddie tries to pry his eyes open. “Eddie, stop! I’m not having a stroke!”

“You could be having a stroke!”

“I’m not! Jesus, you just… you kept saying let go in that  _ voice  _ and my brain went all fuzzy, and then when you were suddenly gone it was like I plummeted out of that dopey little fuzz palace and it freaked me out, that’s all.”

“Your brain went fuzzy?” Eddie asks. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“I don’t know, like I was a teapot and you tipped me over and poured my brain right out my ears,” Richie says. “And all that was left was whatever you were telling me to do.”

That would be hot if Eddie wasn’t still having a panic attack. As is, he’s just mired in some weird haze of anger-terror-confusion. “What the actual fuck are you talking about?”

“It was so good,” Richie says. “Like an out of body experience but everything was just…  _ you.” _

“We should go to the emergency room,” Eddie says, like some kind of broken computer that just defaults to the dumb shit he went through as a kid.

“We don’t need to go to the emergency room,” Richie murmurs, pulling him closer. “For starters, you  _ are _ the emergency room.”

“I’m a  _ surgeon,”  _ Eddie gripes. “I’m the last step in the emergency room process, dickhead, I’m not necessarily qualified to make a diagnosis, and anyway, you’d need a CAT scan and…” And walking himself through the process actually calms him. There’s a procedure, and that makes everything more tangible.

“I’m fine,” Richie says softly, looking him in the eyes. “I just need a healthy dose of vitamin E.”

“Vitamin E is actually a thing,” Eddie says, but the panic is slowly fading. Richie’s hand is on his elbow, thumbing at his arm comfortingly. “So is vitamin K. Vitamin L, for love, maybe, but…”

“Eddie,” Richie says, chuckling quietly. “I’m okay. I’m not having a stroke, you just finally managed to fuck my brains one-hundred-and-one percent out of my skull. Wasn’t that the goal?”

“It was kinda the goal,” Eddie admits. His heart has stopped beating out of his chest, so long as he holds onto Richie as a reminder that he’s still here. And frankly, he’s suggesting the emergency room because it’s what his mother would have done, not as a surgeon, which is a big,  _ big _ no-no. He presses a sloppy, shaky kiss to Richie’s cheek. “Fine, no emergency room. But I’m still watching you.”

“You can watch me for signs of a stroke all you want, babe,” Richie says, giving him a sweet peck on the lips. “And boy, if I  _ did  _ have a stroke, we’re gonna have stories to tell.”

“Shut the fuck up, asshole,” Eddie snaps. “Don’t joke about that.”

“Okay, okay,” Richie says. “I’ll stop for one good snuggling.”

“You suck,” Eddie says, wrapping his arms around Richie and squeezing. “And you’re not allowed to have any strokes ever. Not even when you're like... 70.”

“Yessir.”

Eddie tucks Richie’s head under his chin, gathering up his long limbs as far into Eddie’s lap as he can.

“Hey Eddie,” Richie murmurs. “Are we bad at sex?”

Eddie snorts despite himself. “Being bad at sex would imply that you do jack shit during sex, which you do not.”

“I can’t help it that you like being proactive,” Richie whines. “And that my brain lights up like a Christmas tree on fire the second you do.”

Eddie grins, kissing the top of his head. “You make a very sexy brainless noodle, for what it’s worth.”

“Tell me I’m the sexiest wet noodle in the world,” Richie says.

“In the universe, you gangly noodle fucker.”

“Thank you,” Richie says, yawning. “I’m going to nap now, please play with my hair, thanks.”

Eddie laughs, shifting them so that Richie can stretch out and Eddie can play with his hair. “Demanding noodle.”

“This all started with  _ your _ dead mom fetish, so…”

Eddie kisses Richie firmly on the forehead and whispers, “I  _ will _ kill you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is truly.................................... a thing
> 
> also ben 100% introduced safewords the moment bev suggested they try anything other than the missionary position and bev was like "okay babe if that's what will make you feel good about this but you do understand that doggy style is not THAT intense, right??"

**Author's Note:**

> Eddie calls them from the hotel 30 minutes to inform them he is having a panic attack and they spend another hour trying to convince him that the chances of his zombie mother showing up are pretty small. Like, not ZERO, but... but pretty small, right?
> 
> (I figure no matter how supposedly dead Pennywise gets, there's always gonna be that little voice in their heads going... but what if...?)


End file.
